Again and Again
by twisted-sheets
Summary: America x England. Vampire!AU. Writer Arthur Kirkland keeps having erotic dreams about a man with eyes like his and his lover. Smut in the first chapter. Has sex between a man and a priest. Kill me now.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: ****_Again and Again 1/?_**  
**Disclaimer:** I don't fucking own this. If I did, oh, the naughty things I would do. Heh. /bricked  
**Pairing:** America × England  
**Rating:** HOLY COW IT'S AN NC-17. So yeah. Smut, smut, smut.  
**Author's notes:**Crap. I should probably begin by saying I'm a huge vampire fiction fan (but not of Twilight, orz). And the first part is from an old fanfic I wrote a long time ago (nearly three years ago) that I altered a bit. Yes, yes, it was for a different fandom.

The anon who requested this wanted this to be as smexy as possible, so I obliged, plot be damned. Well, there is a bit of plot. Somewhere. Clichés abound. Possibly OOC. IDK. IDK.

This was partly inspired by a yaoi manga. Bonus if you can identify which manga. And no, its not Junjou Romantica.

WARNING: Possibly contains blasphemy. IDK. Because there's sex between a priest and a man. Okay? Okay.

---

There are haunters of the silence, ghosts that hold the brain and heart:

In the mansion of my being they have placed a room apart:

There I hear their spectre raiment, see their shadows on the floor,

Where the raven, Sorrow, darkens Love's pale image o'er my door.

_The Haunters of the Silence_ by **Madison Cawein**

---

It was the kiss that proved to be his undoing.

_Ice_. His lips were icy at first touch, so cold they almost seemed to burn against his lips. But as the kiss deepened, the ice became fire, and all he could feel was heat and warmth, devouring him.

He did not know how long the kiss went, but it was all over too soon.

His lover was about to go to the door, outside, away from him, away from _them_, but the young lord grabbed him by the arm and pulled his lover against him. He wrapped his arms around him, resting his face against his hair, ignoring the way the lithe body stiffened and struggled against his touch. "Don't go yet."

His lover's struggles ceased for a moment, and then he took a deep breath. "I must go," he said in a quiet voice. "What if someone goes to the church and does not find me there again? Enough suspicion has been cast upon my disappearances. A priest must be in his church at this time of the night. I have cannot stay any longer."

The lordling's lips brushed against the nape of his neck, and he could feel the priest shiver against him. "They will not look for you. No one goes to church at this hour. Stay with me. It's been so long." He tightened his hold around him when he felt the priest struggle again. _Oh, no you don't._

With one swift movement, he swept his feet off the ground and into his arms, carrying him to his room as a man would carry his bride into their bedchamber.

"What do you think you're doing?" the priest cried out as he flailed about in this grasp. "Put me down this instant!"

"This is your fault," he told him calmly, ignoring his struggles.

"_My_ fault?"

Kicking the door shut behind him, he all but tossed him onto the bed, and then he leaned over, smirking. "Your fault," he repeated in a deadpan voice. "You should not have kissed me like that."

The priest looked up at him, eyes half-closed, looking a bit dazed. The lordling's breath quickened at how beautiful he looked like in that moment, even in the darkness, pale and delicate and vulnerable. His hand cupped the back of his neck, drawing the priest's face closer. He kissed him gently on the corner of his lips, a chaste enough gesture belied by his next words. "I want you," he whispered against his lover's ear. "I love you." He felt him shiver in his arms, heard his sharp intake of breath.

Green eyes opened and stared at him with such an expression of want that it sent shivers down his spine. A hand cupped his cheek, and he leaned into the touch, so warm in this cold room. "It's dark in here," the priest suddenly said. He gently pulled away from him, and he went to the window, taking hold of the curtains and pulling them apart. Moonlight flooded the room with pale, dreamy light.

He then turned to the lordling again, green eyes aglow, and approached him, his steps slow and measured. He stood still when he was finally in front of him. "No," he said softly, tilting his head slightly to the side, as if he was thinking about something, "I should have not kissed you like that."

"Let me," he said in a quiet voice, his fingers reaching out, then touching the lordling's throat, "then show you how I should have kissed you." Spellbound by the sudden desire in the priest's eyes, the lordling made the barest of nods, and with a wicked smile so out of place in a man of cloth, the priest began to undress him.

Slowly, he unbuttoned his shirt, placing soft little kisses on the patches of flesh being revealed. He could feel him smile as he gave a soft hiss when his lips brushed against his nipple. "Ar–"

"Hush," the priest said softly, his breath warm against his bare skin. His shirt dropped to the floor with a whisper of sound. "It's all right."

Then his hands drifted to his breeches, fingertips ghosting over the rising mound of heat as he unlaced them, and the lordling bit back a moan that rose to his lips. Then with a brief but firm tug, the priest divested him of the rest of his clothes. As he took a step back from the puddle of clothes, the priest placed a hand on his chest, and he pushed him down to the bed, making him sit on its edge.

He watched with fascination as the priest undressed himself before him, each movement smooth and graceful, slow and teasing, seducing him with every article of clothing he removed from his body—the collar, the crucifix, the robes, the undergarments—all stripped off and tossed to the floor. He had never been like this before, in all the times they had made love, in all the times they have been together. The aggressive change in him made the lordling's heart race with anticipation, and, for heartbeat, an unknown fear.

This was how the lordling wanted to remember that night. The person he loved leaning in front him, bare skin aglow against the moonlight. He reached out to touch the priest's hair, running his fingers through the short, choppy locks, and then encircling him within his arms. He drew him against him, and they tumbled into his bed, the priest on top of him, their legs dangling over the edge of the bed.

He lay flat on his back for a moment, content at looking at his lover's face. Even in the dim light he could see that his cheeks were flushed scarlet, as was the rest of him. Then he pulled him down to kiss him. The priest tasted of tea, of sacramental wine and spices, warm and intoxicating. His thumb brushed against a nipple, and he moaned into the kiss, and he slipped in his tongue, savoring the taste of him, trying to remember all of this.

The priest then slid away and sat up, almost straddling him. He closed his eyes as the priest's hands began to move all over his body, touching and stroking him. "I want you," he said simply as his hands wrapped around his already hard shaft. The lordling groaned at the touch, arching his back from the bed. "I know it is a sin, to want you, to desire this, but I cannot stop. My faith is nothing compared to this. To _you_. You drive me to madness and damnation, to the worship of false gods."

He looked at him straight in the eye. "This," he said slowly, "should be how I kissed you, my lord." He head bent down, his hair brushing against his stomach and thighs, tickling him as he slid away, kneeling on floor. By the time he realized what the priest meant to do, it was too late.

The young lord breathed in sharply as the priest's warm mouth engulfed him. He trembled as his lips slid back and forth against his length, tongue teasing the sensitive slit, hands massaging his sac. All coherent thought fled from his mind, except for one: the knowledge that he was doing _this_ to him. He said his lover's name in a hoarse voice as he tangled his hands into his hair, twisting and breathless in his pleasure.

He could feel the heat building within him, and he almost exploded then and there, but then the priest pulled away at the last moment, leaving him hanging on the edge. The lordling managed to sit up, wrap his arms around his lover and ask, "What–"

"Quiet," he whispered in his ear. He could feel him tremble in his arms as he straddled him again, hear the rapid heartbeat in his chest (or was it his?). They were so melded together in the feverish heat of their bodies and passion that he could not tell which was his and which was the priest's. But it did not matter. Not now. Not ever.

"Let me love you, my lord. Just for tonight, please let me do this." And with a slow, tortuous but steady downward thrust, he was sheathed inside him, his entrance eased by their earlier tryst.

He thought he would die then, so overwhelmed he was of everything, of this _constricting_ warmth around him, of the heat that burned in his veins.

But then the dammed priest _moved_.

"_God!"_ he cried out. He was all but dimly aware of the priest letting out a choked laugh, muttering something about his choice of word.

There were so many things he wanted to cherish that night, to remember, but what he wanted to remember the most was how hot and tight he was around him as he rode him, how his fingers dug into the priest's hips as he gripped him tight, how sweet the pain he felt as the priest raked his fingers across his back in his passion, marking him, and how his flesh tasted of salt and tea and honey when he bit his shoulder as he finally came inside him. How he whispered words of love and promises of eternity. How exquisite it all felt then, how right, and how perfect.

But want he wanted was never meant to be.

----

"YOU CAN'T END IT HERE! WHERE'S THE REST?"

Arthur Kirkland paused midway from sipping his tea and stared at his editor with a calm expression, although inwardly, he winced. Why must Elizabeta be so loud? With a long-suffering sigh, and ignoring the paroxysms of joy and rage being performed by his editor on his sofa, he remarked dryly, "I'm glad you seem to be pleased with it, but it's only a rough draft." A terribly written one, too. "And no, I don't have the rest of it yet."

Elizabeta makes an odd choking sound, and then cleared her throat and sat up. "I see. And the...inspiration for this just came to you...suddenly, hmm?"

"I told you. It just came to me while I was cooking." Arthur looks away to hide the sudden blush on his cheeks. He would not dare admit, even with his editor, who had worked with him for nearly five years now, that this little bit came to him through a strange dream. A _very_ vivid, strange dream that kept him hard and awake the rest of the night writing and wanking, not necessarily in that order. The last thing he needed was her teasing him about his sexual frustrations and fantasies or his very recent break up with that fucking Frog.

"I don't see how an illicit homosexual romance between a noble lord and a priest can be inspired by the culinary arts, but then again, you do have a...unique way of cooking, so I suppose that it is possible." She ignored the glare Arthur sent her. "You didn't give them names yet."

"You know how I work." It was a writing quirk of his not to give his character names until he had a feel of their character, their attitudes and such. Names had meanings and power, he had long believed, and he liked to give his characters names that matched their personalities and circumstances.

This was not exactly the case with this one. Something inside of him seemed to keep him from giving them names; he couldn't even imagine how their faces looked, except for the color of the priest's eyes. Even in the dream, vivid as it was, as tangent and strong the emotions were and the smells, the sounds and the touch and the voices, the faces were blurred in his memory, all except those eyes—green, so disturbingly like his own.

"So when will I get the next part of this?" Elizabeta asks. "Do you mind if I show this to Darling, see what he think about this?"

Arthur blinks at her. Fuck, had he been spacing out again? He'd been doing that lately, ever since that dream. "Ah, no, I don't...mind. As for the next part, well," he paused. He had no idea what to write next, as if some internal . Yet another strange thing about this whole dream-inspired story. "You'll just have to wait and see when it turns up." _As I will._

**TBC...or not**

**Author's note, part 2:** /runs and hides FOREVER


	2. Chapter 2

Wow. Thank you for reading this. I was pretty much overwhelmed by the response. I'm sorry this took so long to update. The anon who requested this wanted this to be as smexy as possible, so I obliged, plot be damned. Well, there is a bit of plot. Somewhere. Clichés abound. Possibly OOC. IDK. IDK. This was partly inspired by a one-shot yaoi manga. Bonus if you can identify which manga. And no, it's not Junjou Romantica. Or Vassalord. I'm sorry this took a while to get out. Haha.

II

"A writer's _block_? You left me hanging with one of the steamiest scenes you've done in a while and you're telling me you can't write more because you have a writer's _block_?"

"Well–"

"I never thought you could be so _cruel_. Darling was terribly impressed by it and wanted more, he'd be so disappointed–"

"Elizabeta, listen," Arthur cut in when his editor took a brief pause from her rant to breathe. He leaned back against the wall, and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his free hand as he gripped the phone tighter in the other. His head hurt, and not just from his editor's babbling and the alcohol he'd enthusiastically imbibed. "While I am overwhelmed with the enthusiasm of your response, the story is simply not coming together in my head yet. I warned you that it wasn't finished, and that you would have to wait and _see_."

"Arthur…"

"And I don't understand what the bleeding fuss is all about. I have already two manuscripts with you that you can work on. There's no need to rush this one."

"Well, yes. But this one is very interesting, and you know how vampires are very hot property now, thanks to _Tw_–"

"Elizabeth, I swear to God and the Queen, if you dare compare my work to that–that–_filthy abomination_ I shall stop writing this and leave things hanging forever."

"Is this about Fra–"

"No, Elizabeta, no. That frog has nothing to do with this. With _any_ of this."

"Oh, _Arthur_," Elizabeta sighed in that exasperating way of hers that told Arthur she has let things go for now, but she'd hound him further in the future on this matter. "Have it your way. Just keep me posted if you have updates, 'kay?"

"Fine." He didn't bother saying goodbye and just slammed the phone down, eager to get away in case Elizabeta would say something more. After a moment's hesitation, with a vicious yank, he tore the phone off the wall, snapping the wire into two, effectively disconnecting his landline phone. Then he slumped on the nearest chair, his headache now worse than ever.

"Dammit." Arthur buried his head in his hands, refusing to look at his desk and the reason behind his current misery—the reason why he wasn't sleeping well, why he was drinking himself into oblivion, and why he was so testy with Elizabeta (but then he was always testy with Elizabeta).

On his desk were sheets of paper, some crumpled into tight balls, others in pieces, scattered all across the table and the floor below it, filled with the delirious scribbles and writings he made in the middle of the several nights while he experienced some kind of possessed, incontrollable _compulsion_ to write out his dreams upon waking up, vivid dreams that had been increasing in intensity these past few days since he had written the wretched draft his editor liked and pestered him about so much.

Dreams where _he_ found himself being fucked senseless by a man whose face he never sees.

Arthur didn't know when he'd stopped denying _he_ was the green-eyed man in his dreams, didn't know when he accepted it, only that it felt eerily _true_.

Always, in these dreams, _he_ being fucked senseless by the same faceless man on every surface and place imaginable—against the wall, on the floor, on the bed, amongst bales of hay in the stables, even in the dining room table in some unknown house. Dreams of him crying out in want and pleasure, writhing and begging for more. _Harder harder harder!_ His dream self would cry out, as he twisted in that man's grasp, hips rocking against each thrust, _Fuck me, take me, yes yes yes!_

And then a sweet, _sweet_ voice would always whisper his name against his ear, and then the man bites him hard on his shoulder, his amused chuckles reverberating against his skin as Arthur cries out when he comes, panting for breath.

What was worse was that every dream seemed so damn real, so damn _lucid_–every touch, every breath, every fucking caress felt true and right–as if were some forgotten memory buried within him.

Arthur felt his face heat up at the memory and he gripped his locks tighter, welcoming the pain, any distraction from this unwelcome arousal. _God, I sounded like a wanton wench in one of those purple-prosed bodice-rippers. _He presses the heel on his hand on his crotch, willing himself to not get aroused at the memories, to not once again wank to them, as he did time and time again after a dream; he always wakes up so painfully hard and wet with want, smelling of his own sweat and musk.

_What the bloody hell is going on? This cannot be in any spectrum of normalcy. If someone tells me this is from sexual frustration or from my break up with Francis, I shall kill them. With my bare hands. By ripping off their entrails and then their still-beating heart. And maybe their spine_, Arthur thinks to himself. He's never experienced anything like this, even in his childhood, when strange things occurred in his life every now and then. He'd thought himself past that stage now.

"Fuck this!" He abruptly rose form his chair, nearly overturning it. He doesn't want to think about this now.

He wanders to his bar, searching for more alcohol. Not that it helped. Sometimes it even made things worse. But he was fast running out of ideas how to stop this stupid dreams, and desperate from any sort of relief. He'd love to try sleep medication, but alcohol and pills and his current state never made good combinations. He wanted the dreams to end, not for him to die of an overdose (and leave people to think he killed himself over Francis, fuck no.)

After fruitlessly searching every corner of his bar, he found, much to disappointment, that he had no alcohol left.

Well.

Thank God for the nearby pubs then.

* * *

Yeah. Next chapter, we see Alfred. I promise.


End file.
